


Missing Pieces

by librata



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Canon Divergence - Post X-Men: First Class (2011), Canon Rewrite, Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Christmas, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik has Issues, Family Feels, Hurt Charles, M/M, Mutants, X-Men: First Class (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:07:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21932719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/pseuds/librata
Summary: After coming home from Cuba with what's left of his little family, Charles is doing all he can to forget and move forward. Too bad a certain someone keeps pulling him back.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 152





	Missing Pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ireliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/gifts).



> So, I completely misread [Ireliss's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss) prompt for [Secret Mutant Madness 2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/secret_mutant_madness_2019) and wrote a Cherik fic on accident. 
> 
> Ooops.

"Professor, we just got the tree up," said Alex, quietly. The young man's broad silhouette loomed in the open doorway of his study, but the shadow made a true gauge of his expression impossible. "Want to help decorate? Hank's making hot chocolate."

The stiffness in his back quickly alerted Charles to the fact that he'd spent the better part of two hours hunched over his desk, buried in legal documentation. Not one of them could have known truly how much went into building an accredited educational institution from the ground up, but Charles had thrown himself into the work. Keeping his mind occupied was a survival mechanism, at this point. 

Upon looking up from his mountains of text, Charles felt momentarily disconnected from his body, his brain struggling to reacclimatize to interaction. A tree. Alex had said something of a tree....oh. Right. It was December.

"I'm not sure how much help I'll be," Charles replied, voice slightly hoarse from relative disuse. The space around them seemed to spin ever so much, leaving Charles feeling slightly dizzy. It was similar to how he used to feel after long bouts of work on his dissertation, but there was little satisfaction tied to the sensation, now. "You three ought to go on ahead. I'm sure it will look wonderful."

Alex stepped into the light then, and Charles could see, all of a sudden, a wanness in the young man that he hadn't noticed before. His typically tumultuous blue eyes weren't alight with mischief or passion–they appeared dark. Still. 

A current of worry coursed through Charles. Was he alright? Was he ill? Charles supposed he hadn't been paying much attention.

"It's not about how much you help. It's just...I dunno. A nice tradition, or something." Alex shrugged. "I think Sean and Hank would like it if you came down."

 _And I would, too,_ the young boy added in his head, an addendum clearly intended to remain unheard.

It had been a very long few months since they'd all returned home from Cuba, and Charles had been splitting his time between two things; physical therapy, and the school. The boys helped too, Hank leading the therapy and the other two offering their labor wherever needed, but for the most part, Charles conducted the majority of his work from his study. He made phone calls, drew plans, filed the legal applications. 

Because the school _had_ had to take off. Charles wouldn't be able to stomach it if it didn't, not after the great sacrifice he'd made. He couldn't allow anything to get in his way, this time. 

But, the laborious work did mean that he had been somewhat absent in the daily goings-on of the mansion. An it was clear in the guarded pleading of Alex's face that the absence was noted.

"Tradition, or something," Charles echoed. Memories of decorating his cozy Oxford flat with Raven danced across his mind, which quickly instigated a sharp pain in his chest. Quickly, he pushed himself back from his desk to do as he could to distance himself from the ache. "Alright," he agreed. "But only if that hot chocolate is piled high with marshmallows."

Alex offered a crooked grin.

As soon as Charles exited the recently-completed elevator, the was welcomed by the unmistakable scent of pine. A plump, handsome tree stood elegantly in the corner of the spacious living room, ready to be adorned with decor. Beside the roaring fireplace, Sean sat on the ground with a bundle of string lights in his lap while Hank burst into the room, three steaming mugs balanced in his hands. 

Both men looked to Charles, surprise on each face. When as the last time they'd all spend time in the same room together?

"I was told there would be hot chocolate," said Charles, stifling the pang that rang through him upon feeling the distance he'd created between himself and his companions. 

"There is," Hank affirmed with an enthusiastic nod. "I'll go get you some. Do you want marshmallows?"

Charles grinned, and then parked his wheelchair beside Sean. "You know I do."

As it turned out, Charles _could_ do plenty to help. Sean would have spent the next fifty years untangling the Christmas lights had Charles not taken over, and the boys also put him in charge of hanging the ornaments on the lower half of the tree. At some stage, Sean put on a Christmas record that he'd acquired, and by the time the tree was dressed, the room was decorated, and the hot chocolate was finished, Charles felt a warmth and ease that he hadn't felt for a long, long time.

He'd missed his boys. Sean and Alex's bickering, Hank's commentary. There was still a looming, pervasive haunt of absence, but for the moment, they could all pretend not to feel it. Right now, they were enough for each other, and Charles could appreciate that for all it was. They deserved more than his aloofness. Charles vowed to be better.

As he sat in the rosy glow of the tree, the boys bustled in and out of the room with armfuls of wrapped gifts.

"You three have already got your shopping done?" Charles mused, wheeling forward to examine the colorful packages. "Impressive."

"Well, kinda," shrugged Sean. "We used your money to buy everything. So, you kinda got our shopping done."

That earned Sean a sharp jab in the ribs from Alex, but Charles could only laugh. "I'm glad you did." It filled his heart to see so many parcels under the tree, tokens of appreciation and thought. _To: Alex, From: Hank. To Sean, From: Alex. To: Prof, From: All of Us._

He would have to make his own way into town, soon, so that he could find things to shower the three of them with. They deserved it, and telepaths were notoriously good gift-givers, after all.

As he continued to review the collection of gifts, all the warmth turned to solid ice when his eyes landed on a small, rectangular package wrapped in blue paper and red ribbon. The parcel itself seemed innocuous enough, but the narrow, elegant script on the affixed tag was anything but.

 **To:** _Charles_ , it read. There was no "from," but Charles didn't need one. 

"Where did you get this?" Charles asked the three, tone a touch tense as he plucked the package from the floor.

Hank frowned as he examined it from where he stood. "Oh, right. That came in the mail today. There was no return address, so I don't know who it's from."

Charles didn't offer any indication that he did, either. There was no sign of damage or scuffing on the wrapping, which lead Charles to believe that it had been hand-delivered to the letterbox.

He pretended that he didn't feel the rush that washed over him at the idea of that.

"A secret admirer, Prof?" teased Sean, and Charles schooled his face into what he hoped was a convincing lighthearted grin.

"I doubt it."

It was difficult to ficus on anything but the gift on his lap for the remainder of the night. Although he couldn't actually feel its weight on his legs, Charles could swear that the thing was burning, searing through his trousers and into his unfeeling thighs.

At some stage this morning, before Hank retrieved the mail, Erik had dropped the gift into the mailbox.

Or, someone had, on Erik's behalf. With bitterness, Charles realized that he wouldn't have even felt it if it was Erik, what with that ugly helmet obscuring his thoughts.

He tried not to think about how a shiver ran down his spine at the realization that Erik had been and still could be nearby. Charles had (almost) stopped expecting Erik to waltz through the door, resigned to the cruel truth that the man was long gone, off doing God knew what, with Raven at this side. 

The choices were made, the actions were taken. Yes, the gaping hole in his chest still felt sore, but he knew that it would and he was beginning to grow accustomed to the ache.

So, it wasn't fair. Erik had no right to get him gifts, not like this. Not while Charles was doing everything he could to move forward. Stunts like this would only delay progress.

And yet...and yet, after Charles and the boys _finally_ bode farewell for the evening (with a plan to convene the next day for further holiday festivities), Charles could hardly contain himself as he sat at his desk, the modest package before him.

The distinctive, unmistakable handwriting taunted him from where it was scrawled across a white tag. Narrow and distinguished, the writing looked as if had been penned by a 19th-century aristocrat rather than a man who had grown up in circumstances so horrific that Charles could hardly stand to think about it. It was a testament to Erik's tactical mind, Charles thought.

When he could no longer resist, Charles finally tugged at the red ribbon and tore the paper away, unsheathing a flat white box. Inside, a tall, obsidian-hued figurine lay nestled among a bed of cotton, accompanied by a note

With a start, Charles realized that the figurine was a metal chess piece. A black queen.

"Oh," whispered the telepath, turning the thin token between his fingers. 

In the corner of his study, an unfinished game of chess sat collecting dust. Several weeks prior to their Cuba mission, Charles and Erik had somehow misplaced the black queen to Charles' set. They'd been using a black bottle cap as a proxy.

It was clear that Erik had crafted the replacement queen himself. Black paint coated an intricate carving, a flawless slope. The shape was nearly identical to the one they'd lost–Erik had remembered every detail of the piece down to the vine pattering along the crown.

Hands shaking, Charles pried open the note, eyes drinking in more of that loping scrawl as if they were seeing for the first time.

_**Dear Charles,** _

_I can't remember whether you celebrate Christmas or not. I know you're not religious, but Christmas has the sort of sentimentality that I imagine you enjoy._

_Regardless, please accept this gift. A handsome chess set such as yours has no business going incomplete._

_I can't remember where our last game left off (though I'm sure I was mere moves away from forcing you to surrender once more). If you're keen, I would like to propose a restart. I'm afraid my companions possess neither the strategic understanding nor the necessary interest of a worthwhile opponent. I know for a fact that your companions are quite the same._

_If interested, please reset the board, and move my G pawn to G4. I await your next move at:_

_Max Eisenhardt  
PO Box 72836  
Washington DC, United States_

_Merry Christmas, Charles._

_Sincerely yours,  
Erik_

After re-reading the letter for the dozenth time, Charles' eyes fell shut.

It wasn't fair. Erik couldn't leave him as he had, and then just expect Charles to be okay with accepting his silly game as if nothing had happened. That simply was not fair.

Hot tears stung in his eyes as he wheeled to the lonesome chessboard, blanketed in a thick coating of dust. It had been Erik's move, and Charles could remember anticipating that the other would stealthily avoid one of his weaker traps, and then aggressively eliminate his rook with his knight. He couldn't recall exactly why they had never finished the game, but as he sat stopped over their board, an intense longing and regret crooned within his chest.

 _Erik chose his path. I chose mine. We want different things,_ Charles repeated to himself, even as he began to reset the board. That was just it, wasn't it? That's all they were. Two people who were pursing their own goals. Chasing different dreams.

And...well. It seemed silly to assume that their divergent roads meant that they couldn't share _anything._

On a chilly morning in late December, Erik glanced up as a _crack_ announced Azazel's return. 

"Post for you," the Russian teleporter said, and dropped a small stack of letters on Erik's lap before disappearing once more.

"Mm," Erik replied to no one, brow furrowed as he rifled through the envelopes. There was something metallic in one of them, something that sang to his bones and nerves. He found it at the bottom of the ream, and then his jaw set when he saw the stately print in the center of the envelope.

Inside, there was a letter, and a bent, battered bottle cap.

_**Dear Erik,** _

_Thank you for the beautiful gift. My set is nearly whole again. I enjoy the festivities of Christmas, but don't observe the religious traditions, which means that your assumptions were correct._

_I'm aware that Hanukkah has already passed, so I do hope you enjoyed a pleasant holiday, wherever you happened to be._

_Do take care of yourself. Send Raven my love, if you think she'd be interested in having it._

_You're welcome to join me so that we may finish our game in person, if you're one day inclined. Until then, my B knight is at C6._

_And now, it is your move, Erik._

_Forever Yours,  
Charles _

For just a moment, the dull ache Erik had been nursing for months fell quiet, a gentle, familiar ease taking its place. This feeling, he knew, was the exact midpoint between rage and serenity. Bittersweet, but full of promise.

With a small smile, Erik stood to retrieve a slip of paper and a pen.


End file.
